The Cossacks, by Leo Tolstoy

Chapter 2

‘I’m fond of them, very fond! . . . First-rate fellows! . . . Fine!’ he kept
repeating, and felt ready to cry. But why he wanted to cry, who were the first-rate fellows he was so fond of — was
more than he quite knew. Now and then he looked round at some house and wondered why it was so curiously built;
sometimes he began wondering why the post-boy and Vanyusha, who were so different from himself, sat so near, and
together with him were being jerked about and swayed by the tugs the side-horses gave at the frozen traces, and again
he repeated: ‘First rate . . . very fond!’ and once he even said: ‘And how it seizes one . . .
excellent!’ and wondered what made him say it. ‘Dear me, am I drunk?’ he asked himself. He had had a couple of bottles
of wine, but it was not the wine alone that was having this effect on Olenin. He remembered all the words of friendship
heartily, bashfully, spontaneously (as he believed) addressed to him on his departure. He remembered the clasp of
hands, glances, the moments of silence, and the sound of a voice saying, ‘Good-bye, Mitya!’ when he was already in the
sledge. He remembered his own deliberate frankness. And all this had a touching significance for him. Not only friends
and relatives, not only people who had been indifferent to him, but even those who did not like him, seemed to have
agreed to become fonder of him, or to forgive him, before his departure, as people do before confession or death.
‘Perhaps I shall not return from the Caucasus,’ he thought. And he felt that he loved his friends and some one besides.
He was sorry for himself. But it was not love for his friends that so stirred and uplifted his heart that he could not
repress the meaningless words that seemed to rise of themselves to his lips; nor was it love for a woman (he had never
yet been in love) that had brought on this mood. Love for himself, love full of hope — warm young love for all that was
good in his own soul (and at that moment it seemed to him that there was nothing but good in it)— compelled him to weep
and to mutter incoherent words.

Olenin was a youth who had never completed his university course, never served anywhere (having only a nominal post
in some government office or other), who had squandered half his fortune and had reached the age of twenty-four without
having done anything or even chosen a career. He was what in Moscow society is termed un jeune homme.

At the age of eighteen he was free — as only rich young Russians in the ‘forties who had lost their parents at an
early age could be. Neither physical nor moral fetters of any kind existed for him; he could do as he liked, lacking
nothing and bound by nothing. Neither relatives, nor fatherland, nor religion, nor wants, existed for him. He believed
in nothing and admitted nothing. But although he believed in nothing he was not a morose or blase young man, nor
self-opinionated, but on the contrary continually let himself be carried away. He had come to the conclusion that there
is no such thing as love, yet his heart always overflowed in the presence of any young and attractive woman. He had
long been aware that honours and position were nonsense, yet involuntarily he felt pleased when at a ball Prince
Sergius came up and spoke to him affably. But he yielded to his impulses only in so far as they did not limit his
freedom. As soon as he had yielded to any influence and became conscious of its leading on to labour and struggle, he
instinctively hastened to free himself from the feeling or activity into which he was being drawn and to regain his
freedom. In this way he experimented with society-life, the civil service, farming, music — to which at one time he
intended to devote his life — and even with the love of women in which he did not believe. He meditated on the use to
which he should devote that power of youth which is granted to man only once in a lifetime: that force which gives a
man the power of making himself, or even — as it seemed to him — of making the universe, into anything he wishes:
should it be to art, to science, to love of woman, or to practical activities? It is true that some people are devoid
of this impulse, and on entering life at once place their necks under the first yoke that offers itself and honestly
labour under it for the rest of their lives. But Olenin was too strongly conscious of the presence of that all-powerful
God of Youth — of that capacity to be entirely transformed into an aspiration or idea — the capacity to wish and to do
— to throw oneself headlong into a bottomless abyss without knowing why or wherefore. He bore this consciousness within
himself, was proud of it and, without knowing it, was happy in that consciousness. Up to that time he had loved only
himself, and could not help loving himself, for he expected nothing but good of himself and had not yet had time to be
disillusioned. On leaving Moscow he was in that happy state of mind in which a young man, conscious of past mistakes,
suddenly says to himself, ‘That was not the real thing.’ All that had gone before was accidental and unimportant. Till
then he had not really tried to live, but now with his departure from Moscow a new life was beginning — a life in which
there would be no mistakes, no remorse, and certainly nothing but happiness.

It is always the case on a long journey that till the first two or three stages have been passed imagination
continues to dwell on the place left behind, but with the first morning on the road it leaps to the end of the journey
and there begins building castles in the air. So it happened to Olenin.

After leaving the town behind, he gazed at the snowy fields and felt glad to be alone in their midst. Wrapping
himself in his fur coat, he lay at the bottom of the sledge, became tranquil, and fell into a doze. The parting with
his friends had touched him deeply, and memories of that last winter spent in Moscow and images of the past, mingled
with vague thoughts and regrets, rose unbidden in his imagination.

He remembered the friend who had seen him off and his relations with the girl they had talked about. The girl was
rich. “How could he love her knowing that she loved me?” thought he, and evil suspicions crossed his mind. “There is
much dishonesty in men when one comes to reflect.” Then he was confronted by the question: “But really, how is it I
have never been in love? Every one tells me that I never have. Can it be that I am a moral monstrosity?” And he began
to recall all his infatuations. He recalled his entry into society, and a friend’s sister with whom he spent several
evenings at a table with a lamp on it which lit up her slender fingers busy with needlework, and the lower part of her
pretty delicate face. He recalled their conversations that dragged on like the game in which one passes on a stick
which one keeps alight as long as possible, and the general awkwardness and restraint and his continual feeling of
rebellion at all that conventionality. Some voice had always whispered: “That’s not it, that’s not it,” and so it had
proved. Then he remembered a ball and the mazurka he danced with the beautiful D——. “How much in love I was that night
and how happy! And how hurt and vexed I was next morning when I woke and felt myself still free! Why does not love come
and bind me hand and foot?” thought he. “No, there is no such thing as love! That neighbour who used to tell me, as she
told Dubrovin and the Marshal, that she loved the stars, was not it either.” And now his farming and work in
the country recurred to his mind, and in those recollections also there was nothing to dwell on with pleasure. “Will
they talk long of my departure?” came into his head; but who “they” were he did not quite know. Next came a thought
that made him wince and mutter incoherently. It was the recollection of M. Cappele the tailor, and the six hundred and
seventy-eight rubles he still owed him, and he recalled the words in which he had begged him to wait another year, and
the look of perplexity and resignation which had appeared on the tailor’s face. ‘Oh, my God, my God!’ he repeated,
wincing and trying to drive away the intolerable thought. ‘All the same and in spite of everything she loved me,’
thought he of the girl they had talked about at the farewell supper. ‘Yes, had I married her I should not now be owing
anything, and as it is I am in debt to Vasilyev.’ Then he remembered the last night he had played with Vasilyev at the
club (just after leaving her), and he recalled his humiliating requests for another game and the other’s cold refusal.
‘A year’s economizing and they will all be paid, and the devil take them!’ . . . But despite this assurance
he again began calculating his outstanding debts, their dates, and when he could hope to pay them off. ‘And I owe
something to Morell as well as to Chevalier,’ thought he, recalling the night when he had run up so large a debt. It
was at a carousel at the gipsies arranged by some fellows from Petersburg: Sashka B—-, an aide-de-camp to the Tsar,
Prince D—-, and that pompous old ——. ‘How is it those gentlemen are so self-satisfied?’ thought he, ‘and by what right
do they form a clique to which they think others must be highly flattered to be admitted? Can it be because they are on
the Emperor’s staff? Why, it’s awful what fools and scoundrels they consider other people to be! But I showed them that
I at any rate, on the contrary, do not at all want their intimacy. All the same, I fancy Andrew, the steward, would be
amazed to know that I am on familiar terms with a man like Sashka B—-, a colonel and an aide-de-camp to the Tsar! Yes,
and no one drank more than I did that evening, and I taught the gipsies a new song and everyone listened to it. Though
I have done many foolish things, all the same I am a very good fellow,’ thought he.

Morning found him at the third post-stage. He drank tea, and himself helped Vanyusha to move his bundles and trunks
and sat down among them, sensible, erect, and precise, knowing where all his belongings were, how much money he had and
where it was, where he had put his passport and the post-horse requisition and toll-gate papers, and it all seemed to
him so well arranged that he grew quite cheerful and the long journey before him seemed an extended pleasure-trip.

All that morning and noon he was deep in calculations of how many versts he had travelled, how many remained to the
next stage, how many to the next town, to the place where he would dine, to the place where he would drink tea, and to
Stavropol, and what fraction of the whole journey was already accomplished. He also calculated how much money he had
with him, how much would be left over, how much would pay off all his debts, and what proportion of his income he would
spend each month. Towards evening, after tea, he calculated that to Stavropol there still remained seven-elevenths of
the whole journey, that his debts would require seven months’ economy and one-eighth of his whole fortune; and then,
tranquillized, he wrapped himself up, lay down in the sledge, and again dozed off. His imagination was now turned to
the future: to the Caucasus. All his dreams of the future were mingled with pictures of Amalat-Beks, Circassian women,
mountains, precipices, terrible torrents, and perils. All these things were vague and dim, but the love of fame and the
danger of death furnished the interest of that future. Now, with unprecedented courage and a strength that amazed
everyone, he slew and subdued an innumerable host of hillsmen; now he was himself a hillsman and with them was
maintaining their independence against the Russians. As soon as he pictured anything definite, familiar Moscow figures
always appeared on the scene. Sashka B—-fights with the Russians or the hillsmen against him. Even the tailor Cappele
in some strange way takes part in the conqueror’s triumph. Amid all this he remembered his former humiliations,
weaknesses, and mistakes, and the recollection was not disagreeable. It was clear that there among the mountains,
waterfalls, fair Circassians, and dangers, such mistakes could not recur. Having once made full confession to himself
there was an end of it all. One other vision, the sweetest of them all, mingled with the young man’s every thought of
the future — the vision of a woman.

And there, among the mountains, she appeared to his imagination as a Circassian slave, a fine figure with a long
plait of hair and deep submissive eyes. He pictured a lonely hut in the mountains, and on the threshold she stands
awaiting him when, tired and covered with dust, blood, and fame, he returns to her. He is conscious of her kisses, her
shoulders, her sweet voice, and her submissiveness. She is enchanting, but uneducated, wild, and rough. In the long
winter evenings he begins her education. She is clever and gifted and quickly acquires all the knowledge essential. Why
not? She can quite easily learn foreign languages, read the French masterpieces and understand them: Notre Dame de
Paris, for instance, is sure to please her. She can also speak French. In a drawing-room she can show more innate
dignity than a lady of the highest society. She can sing, simply, powerfully, and passionately. . . . ‘Oh,
what nonsense!’ said he to himself. But here they reached a post-station and he had to change into another sledge and
give some tips. But his fancy again began searching for the ‘nonsense’ he had relinquished, and again fair Circassians,
glory, and his return to Russia with an appointment as aide-de-camp and a lovely wife rose before his imagination. ‘But
there’s no such thing as love,’ said he to himself. ‘Fame is all rubbish. But the six hundred and seventy-eight rubles?
. . . And the conquered land that will bring me more wealth than I need for a lifetime? It will not be right
though to keep all that wealth for myself. I shall have to distribute it. But to whom? Well, six hundred and
seventy-eight rubles to Cappele and then we’ll see.’ . . . Quite vague visions now cloud his mind, and only
Vanyusha’s voice and the interrupted motion of the sledge break his healthy youthful slumber. Scarcely conscious, he
changes into another sledge at the next stage and continues his journey.

Next morning everything goes on just the same: the same kind of post-stations and tea-drinking, the same moving
horses’ cruppers, the same short talks with Vanyusha, the same vague dreams and drowsiness, and the same tired,
healthy, youthful sleep at night.